


The language of friendship is not words but meanings

by Llama1412



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Developing Relationship, Flower Crowns, Foreign Language, Friendship, Gen, Hair Braiding, Hen Llinge | Elder Speech (The Witcher), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Language Barrier, Language of Flowers, POV Alternating, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: When Geralt is hired by the Blue Stripes and the Scoia'tael to find their missing commanders, he discovers that not only have said commanders somehow turned into children, but that the two groups managed to scare them away before introductions could be made. Fortunately, Roche and Iorveth both have their own ways of making themselves understood.
Relationships: Blue Stripes & Vernon Roche, Iorveth & Scoia'tael (The Witcher), Iorveth & Vernon Roche
Comments: 27
Kudos: 65
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	1. Geralt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SrokaZlodziejka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrokaZlodziejka/gifts).



> Title is a quote from Henry David Thoreau.  
> For the Sugar and Spice Bingo prompt "flower crowns"

Geralt prided himself on his neutrality. Neutral did not mean he didn’t care or didn’t acknowledge the struggles of those he came across – just that he could not commit to their cause long term. Some people understood that better than others.

He’d thought the Scoia’tael understood it decently well. He’d probably helped more units than he’d ever hurt, and most of them tended to just give him distance. So when a furtive-looking elf approached him outside the forest, Geralt wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

To be led into a forest clearing where two Temerian Blue Stripes stood on guard was definitely not it. 

“Uh,” Geralt started, noticing the way the elf and the commando glared at each other. “Why am I here?”

“We have a very important contract for you, Gwynbleidd,” the elf said. “Vitally important.”

“We’re hiring you first, though!” One of the Blue Stripes interrupted. “Ours is more important!”

Geralt held up his hands. “Why don’t you tell me what is so vitally important?”

“Well…”

“And also, since when do the Scoia’tael and the Blue Stripes work together?”

“We are not working together!” several elves and humans screeched with one voice. 

Geralt sighed.

“Where are Iorveth and Roche?”

“Ah.”

That, it turned out, was rather the problem.

“How do you lose your commander!?”

“Well, he’s tiny now! It’s not our fault!” the Blue Stripes commando who never shut up defended.

“Iorveth is very sneaky,” Iorveth’s second in command shrugged. “The point is, we can’t find them.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at them, feeling like he’d missed something. “What do you mean, he’s tiny?”

“Oh,” one of the humans scratched his head. “Did we not mention? The Boss and the elf got cursed. Into children. As in, they don’t remember who any of us are because they are children again!”

The man’s voice grew shrill as he spoke and Geralt looked around at the utter chaos of the forest clearing. A bush was actively on fire, there were ropes and half-built traps and general debris all over, and worst of all, there were about half a dozen Squirrels and Blue Stripes running around in a panic, shouting for their leaders.

“First things first,” Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “All of you need to calm the fuck down. Then you can tell me the whole story. From the start.”

As the elves and humans struggled to speak over each other, Geralt grudgingly hoped that the little rascals were at least having fun giving their units heart attacks. He could already tell they were going to be a pain to track down.


	2. Vernon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon didn't know who all these adults were, but he knew that when people yelled like that, it was time for any sensible child to be _gone_.

Vernon was used to adults yelling loudly when he was around, just like he was used to them telling their kids not to play with him. He didn’t fully understand  _ why _ they couldn’t play with him – why did what his mom did to feed them  _ matter!? _ – but he knew that when adults started yelling like the men in blue did, it was time to run away.

Only there was another kid, near where the people in green were screaming and hollering. The kid looked weird – their clothes were clean and vivid with dye, and their skin was a little darker than Vernon’s. The sun made it look warm and Vernon weirdly wanted to touch, but that wasn’t important. What  _ was _ important was that he couldn’t leave the other kid to face the wrath of the adults.

Vernon edged around the the yelling men until he could sidle up next to the other kid, who was clutching his arms tightly with his head tucked into his shoulders as he watched the adults.

“C’mon,” Vernon whispered, tapping the boy on the shoulder. His touch left a little smear of dirt on the boy’s spotless clothing and Vernon immediately curled his fingers into fists, holding them away. 

The boy turned towards him and Vernon was struck by how pretty he was. His face was delicate like Vernon’s mom’s, and his hair was finer than Vernon’s, neatly tied back in little braids, rather than the messy ponytail Vernon had managed. The look on the boy’s face was pure confusion.

Vernon jerked his head towards the treeline – the opposite direction of the adults – and started edging in that direction. 

“C’mon,” Vernon whispered again, hesitant to touch such beauty and dirty it again. He waved his hands urgently, gesturing for the kid to follow him.

The boy just stared at him, a slight frown on his face. Vernon huffed and reached out to grab the boy’s wrist, careful to touch as little skin as possible. But the boy wasn’t  _ moving _ and when adults yelled like they were, the noise getting louder and louder, it was time for any sensible kid to be  _ gone. _

So Vernon dragged the pretty boy along with him as he took off running into the forest. The boy gasped and stumbled into him, but Vernon kept tugging at him until finally, they were running together. 

Once he couldn’t hear the adults at all anymore, Vernon slowed down and turned to the boy. “Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand away and rubbing it on his pants. He’d left dirt behind on the boy’s wrist too, and Vernon bit his lip. “I’m sorry I made you dirty. I’m Vernon. What’s your name?”

The boy tilted his head. “Chan eil mi gad thuigsinn.” <I don’t understand you.>

Vernon blinked. “I… what? Is that – is that another language?” Now Vernon tilted his head, examining the boy. He’d missed it earlier, but when the pretty boy pushed his hair back behind his ears, Vernon suddenly spotted the points that should have clued him in on the language. “You’re an elf!”

Pretty Boy frowned, shaking his head. “Tha thu a ’coimhead neònach. Carson a tha do chluasan cruinn?” <You look weird. Why are your ears round?>

“Uh… okay, I’m guessing you can’t understand me, ‘cause I can’t understand you.” Vernon scratched his head, then tapped his chest. “Vernon. Ver-non. I’m Vernon. Now you,” he pointed at the elf.

The elf pointed to him and repeated, “Vernon. Hi,” he waved, then tapped his own chest. “Tha mi Iorveth.” <I’m Iorveth.>

Vernon furrowed his brow, attempting to repeat the pretty elf’s name. “Ye – Yor – can I just call you Pretty Boy?”

Pretty Boy blinked at him.

Vernon nodded, happy with his decision. So he pointed at himself again, “Vernon,” then at the elf, “Pretty Boy.”

Pretty Boy shook his head and stomped his foot. “Iorveth!”

“Pretty Boy,” Vernon insisted. “I can’t say that! Yeo – Yo-vith?”

Pretty Boy crossed his arms. “Gu math. An uairsin tha thu Eireachdail.”<Fine. Then you’re Handsome.> He pointed at himself and, with an eye roll, repeated, “Pretty Boy.” Then he pointed at Vernon again, “Eireachdail.” <Handsome.>

Vernon made a face. “If I can’t say your name, how am I supposed to say  _ that!?” _

Pretty Boy smiled, looking pleased with himself and Vernon found himself breathless when that smile turned on him. In the sunshine, Pretty Boy almost seemed to glow and Vernon had the passing thought that instead of an elf, Pretty Boy could easily be some type of fairy.

“Okay,” Vernon agreed. “I’m Eireachdail.” His attempt at the word sounded nothing like Pretty Boy’s, but Pretty Boy looked delighted. 

The elf picked two sticks up from the ground and held one out to Vernon. “Cluicheamaid!” <Let’s play!>

“But – but you’ll get dirty!” Vernon protested, fiddling with the stick.

Pretty Boy poked him. “Tiugainn!” <Come on!>

Well, if Pretty Boy was all right with it…

“Hiyah!” Vernon shouted, launching himself at Pretty Boy with his sword drawn. Pretty Boy met the blow with his own and there was a loud clack as their sticks hit each other. Then they both darted back and tried again. 

After the third time Pretty Boy blocked him perfectly, Vernon started giggling. “You’re really good at this!” It was fun, each of their swings slapping against each other. It was almost as if they could sense what the other was about to do and move in time to meet them, sticks smacking against each other. 

Pretty Boy grinned at him over the cross of their swords and Vernon found himself breathless again. 

This time, when Pretty Boy swung at him, he was a moment too late to block and the stick hit him across the nose, bloodying it.

Pretty Boy immediately dropped his stick, gasping and running to Vernon’s side as he stumbled back, covering his nose.

“Owwww,” he groaned, feeling at the bones of his nose. As hits went, it actually wasn’t too bad, but Pretty Boy seemed near-frantic, scrabbling at his hands and murmuring something over and over again.

“Tha mi duilich. Tha mi duilich. Tha mi duilich.” <I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.>

“Hey, hey,” Vernon caught Pretty Boy’s hands in his own and even though he was definitely smearing blood over Pretty Boy’s hands, the touch seemed to reassure him.

Pretty Boy sniffed, tears welling up in his eyes, “cha robh mi airson do bhualadh.” <I didn’t mean to hit you.>

Vernon squeezed the hands in his grasp. “‘s okay. I’m okay, see?” He smiled up at Pretty Boy to prove it and even though it did actually make his nose sting, he refused to let his grin fall.

Pretty Boy hesitantly smiled back, eyes watery.

Vernon looked around, wondering how he could cheer up Pretty Boy. It wasn’t as if he’d  _ meant _ to hit Vernon, after all. Spotting a bush with pretty purplish pink flowers, Vernon dragged Pretty Boy over and plucked a flower, tucking it behind his ear.

“Don’t cry,” he said, “I’m okay. See, the bleeding’s even stopped!”

Pretty Boy blinked at him for a long moment and then freed his hands to swipe at his eyes. Then, without warning, Pretty Boy launched himself at Vernon, wrapping his arms tight around the boy.

“Tha thu mo charaid cuideachd,” <You’re my friend too> Pretty Boy murmured in his ear and even though Vernon couldn’t understand the words, the warm tone of Pretty Boy’s voice had him smiling and hugging back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (using Google Translate) from Scots Gaelic:  
> Chan eil mi gad thuigsinn = I don’t understand you  
> Tha thu a ’coimhead neònach. Carson a tha do chluasan cruinn? = You look weird. Why are your ears round?  
> Tha mi Iorveth = I’m Iorveth  
> Gu math. An uairsin tha thu eireachdail = Fine. Then you’re Handsome  
> Eireachdail = Handsome  
> Cluicheamaid = Let’s play!  
> Tiugainn = Come on!  
> Tha mi duilich = I’m sorry  
> Cha robh mi airson do bhualadh. = I didn’t mean to hit you.  
> Tha thu mo charaid cuideachd = You’re my friend too


	3. Iorveth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth and Vernon entertain themselves with flowers.

Pulling back from hugging Eireachdail, Iorveth smiled and pressed forward quickly to kiss Eireachdail’s nose. Eireachdail made a surprised sound and Iorveth drew back with a grin. “Hurts heal faster with kisses,” he quoted his mother, even though he knew Eireachdail couldn’t understand him.

Just to make sure that Eireachdail knew he was sorry, and that he appreciated the gifted geranium, Iorveth reached out and plucked a handful of flowers from the bush, quickly weaving the stems together in a rough crown that he deposited on Eireachdail’s head with a grin.

Eireachdail reached up to touch it and his voice went low and wondrous. “Merci,” <Thank you> he murmured, smiling so softly that Iorveth couldn’t help biting his lip against giddy giggles. He didn’t know why Eireachdail was different from him or why he had round ears, but Iorveth liked him. 

So when Eireachdail grabbed two flowers and tried – and failed – to weave them together, Iorveth decided that teaching his new friend how to make a flower crown would be the  _ perfect _ way to spend his day.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Eireachdail’s hand and interlacing their fingers, “I’ll teach you.”

Eireachdail let himself be dragged along and Iorveth followed the flow of water until they came upon an open meadow full of wildflowers. Eireachdail gasped in awe and Iorveth turned to beam at him, grabbing Eireachdail’s other hand and spinning them around.

Eireachdail laughed and ran with him, spinning them faster and faster until they collapsed to the ground in a fit of giggles. 

They got stuck like that for a while. Every time Iorveth thought he had control of his laughter, he turned to look at Eireachdail and cracked up all over again. But finally, when he felt lightheaded with breathlessness, Eireachdail pulled him into a rough hug and they lay in the field of flowers trying to breathe.

Finally, Iorveth was able to sit up without losing his head again and he reached out to grab a fistful of flowers, gesturing with his other hand for Eireachdail to sit next to him.

“You just start braiding the stems,” Iorveth explained, demonstrating with the three daisies, “and then you add another flower and keep braiding it.”

Eireachdail watched his fingers closely, then reached for a few flowers to practice on. Iorveth nodded encouragingly, hands moving automatically to continue the daisy chain. Eireachdail could use a necklace to go with his crown, after all.

While Eireachdail worked on weaving flowers together, Iorveth’s fingers moved quickly through the motions until he had several circlets in varying colors. Fingers still itching to do something, Iorveth shifted until he could kneel behind Eireachdail and touched his hair with the lightest possible pressure.

“Could I – could I weave flowers into your hair?”

Eireachdail tilted his head, then nodded, tilting his head to focus on the crown he was meticulously creating. Iorveth plucked his first flower and slowly ran his fingers through Eireachdail’s hair, hesitant and ready for the other to revoke his permission.

But instead of growing tense, Eireachdail leaned into the stroke of his fingers with a sigh, “ça fait du bien.” <That feels nice.>

His voice was soft and warm and Iorveth smiled, slowly growing less tentative. Eireachdail’s hair was so different from his own. Where Iorveth’s hair was straight and fine, Eireachdail’s was thick and curly, tangling around his fingers easily. It felt nice, stroking his fingers through Eireachdail’s hair and idly braiding in various flowers: hibiscus for affection, asters for love and daintiness, daisies for innocence and hope, daffodils for unequalled love, black-eyed susans for justice, just because it was pretty, and, of course, gardenias for true friendship.

“Ah!” Eireachdail made a triumphant noise just as Iorveth finished braiding in his last gardenia. “C'est fait!” <It’s done!>

Eireachdail rolled to his knees, turning to face Iorveth and present the slightly ragged daisy train he’d woven. 

“For me?” Iorveth asked, biting his lip against a smile. His face felt warm and his body felt light and he felt like he could happily exist in this moment for an eternity with his new friend.

“C'est pour toi,” Eireachdail said, reaching out and wrapping the daisies around Iorveth’s neck, twisting the ends together behind him. “Merci de m'apprendre.” <It's for you. Thanks for teaching me.>

Then Eireachdail hesitated for a moment before pressing forward and kissing Iorveth on the nose, just as Iorveth had done earlier. 

“Je t'aime bien, Pretty Boy,” <I like you, Pretty Boy> Eireachdail murmured against his face, then he pulled back and stretched his arms over his head with a grand yawn. “Maintenant j’ai fatigué. L’heur de dormir?” <Now I’m tired. Sleep time?>

He flopped facedown into the flowers, his colorful braids settling around his head, and sprawled out as if the ground were comfortable. Iorveth covered his own yawn, tilting his head. 

“Are you going to nap?” 

He, unlike Eireachdail, did  _ not _ find the ground very comfortable. But perhaps… 

Movement tentative, just in case he was unwelcome, Iorveth sat down next to Eireachdail and slowly pressed his weight over the boy’s legs. When Eireachdail didn’t object, Iorveth grinned mischievously and threw himself down across Eireachdail’s back.

Eireachdail grunted, breath pushed out of him, but then he started laughing. Iorveth squirmed around, getting comfortable and he had to say, Eireachdail made quite a good pillow.

“Bonne nuit, Pretty Boy,” Eireachdail murmured with another yawn. <Good night, Pretty Boy>

“Good night, Eireachdail,” Iorveth replied, closing his eyes and napping easily in the bright midafternoon sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in French:  
> Merci = Thank you  
> ça fait du bien = that feels nice  
> C’est fait = it’s done!  
> C’est pour toi = It’s for you  
> Merci de m'apprendre = Thank you for teaching me.  
> Je t'aime bien = I like you  
> Maintenant j’ai fatigué. L’heur de dormir? = Now I’m tired. Sleep time?


	4. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and the Stripes and the Scoia'tael follow the trail of their tiny leaders.

It took far too long for Geralt to parse out that the two missing commanders had 1) been turned into seven year olds, and 2) had run away from the frantic and hysterical shouting of the Scoia’tael and the Blue Stripes. Once he’d figured that out, it was a simple matter to search for tiny footprints that  _ hadn’t _ yet been trampled by the panicking adults.

There were a whole five footprints that the idiots around him  _ hadn’t _ managed to destroy, but fortunately, they led Geralt to where twigs and branches had been broken, headed deeper into the forest.

“But why would they run!?” one of the Stripes wailed. “Why would they run from us!?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Ves, Roche’s second in command, rolled her eyes. “If I woke up as a child in a clearing full of adults I didn’t recognize, what might I do? Oh! I know –  _ run!” _

“What’s interesting,” Geralt cut off the response to Ves’s snide words, “is that they ran off together.”

One of the elves scoffed. “Iorveth wouldn’t bother with a filthy  _ dh’oine.” _

Geralt shrugged, “I mean, you said he was a kid, right? Wasn’t Iorveth’s childhood  _ before _ humanity came to the continent? So there’s no real reason he should have any problem with a human child.”

“But–”

“At any rate,” Geralt continued, already exhausted and his search had just started, “they ran through the forest together. If you idiots can manage to be  _ quiet _ for five minutes, perhaps we can actually find them.”

There were grumbles and hmphs in response to his words, but the elves and humans trailing behind him  _ did _ fall silent.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, sniffing the air and narrowing his eyes as he followed the tracks of two children running carelessly through the forest and stopping to play with sticks. “Ah,” one of the sticks lay abandoned, one end of it red with blood. Geralt knew he’d smelled the iron tang of spilt blood, but fortunately, it didn’t look bad. From the drops on the ground, the bleeding had stopped fairly quickly.

“One of them was attacked!” an elf gasped and before Geralt had a chance to correct them – there was too little blood for an intentional attack, and besides, why would they run away together and then turn on each other? – the Blue Stripes leapt forward to accuse the Scoia’tael.

“Of course Iorveth attacked! Elves are always treacherous!”

“You don’t know that! Your filthy dh’oine probably made the first move!”

“How dare you!”

Geralt whistled sharply, cutting off the imminent brawl. “Neither of them attacked. Aren’t several of you supposed to be  _ good _ at tracking? Read the fucking ground.” A handful of humans and elves shifted uncomfortably. “They were playing. At a guess, I’d say they’re two kids who were confronted with a bunch of panicking adults they didn’t know and decided to run off and play.”

Ves grunted. “Suppose that makes sense. Though why the Boss would play with an elf…”

Geralt ignored her, tracing the small footprints with his eyes as they wandered over to a flower bush, then ran off again. He followed the trail towards a field of wildflowers and immediately spotted the misshapen lump that appeared to be two children cuddling.

It took both the elves and the humans several seconds longer to notice them. 

“Roche!” Ves shouted, running towards them and Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose again. 

“If you wake them up and scare them, they’ll just run again.”

No one bothered to listen to him, instead jogging closer – until they all abruptly came to a halt.

“Are they…” one of the Stripes trailed off.

_ “Cuddling!?” _ an elf hissed. “The dh’oine must have messed with Iorveth’s mind!”

“Like hell! Your elf is strangling our commander!”

“Shhh,” the Stripes commando with the big bushy hair shushed them all. “You’ll wake them!”

“Uh,  _ yeah,” _ one of his teammates responded, “because Boss would never want to be fucking spooning with an elf!”

“Not really spooning,” someone grumbled, but their words were drowned out by the snarls of several elves. 

“Shut your racist mouths, dh’oine! We have to explain to them who we are!” Iorveth’s second in command, Ciaran, crept forward and shook Iorveth’s shoulder lightly. “Iorveth, dùisg.” <Iorveth, wake up.>

Iorveth grumbled, his face scrunching up as he nuzzled further into his pillow – which just happened to be a certain human’s shoulder. Roche was asleep facedown in the flowers and his hair was scattered in a halo around him, decorated with braids and flowers. Geralt rolled his lips together to hold back a smile.

“Iorveth,” Ciaran called again.

“Thalla,” Iorveth groaned, clutching Roche closer. “Tha mi nam chadal.” <Go away. I’m sleeping.>

“Wait, can the kid not speak Common?” one of the Stripes asked. “If they haven’t been able to understand each other–”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Somehow, I think they found a way to communicate.”

“You don’t know that!”

“They apparently made each other flower crowns, played together, and are now napping together. I think they figured out well enough how to make themselves understood.”

“What’s with the Boss’s hair? I mean, I know it’s usually shorter, but never pegged him as the type for flower braids.”

“Idiot,” one of the elves said stiffly. “Someone obviously had to  _ put _ the braids in his hair.”

The Scoia’tael and the Stripes stared at each other uncertainly, each processing the implications of that.

Geralt rolled his eyes again and called the kids’ names. “Iorveth, Vernon, wake up.”

A loud, wordless grumble emerged from the general area Roche had buried his face in the ground. 

“C’mon,” Geralt nudged, “time to wake up.”

“F’ck off,” Roche mumbled and Geralt had to hold back laughter. Yeah, that was definitely Vernon Roche being used as a mattress by a clingy elven child.

“You can nap later,” Geralt promised, “but right now, there’s something important we need to talk about.” He repeated his words in Elder, just so Iorveth could understand it too.

Iorveth huffed, but slowly raised himself up, stretching his hands above his head with a yawn. Then he tilted his head and looked up at Geralt, legs still entangled with Roche’s. “Cò th 'annad?” <Who are you?>

“I’m Geralt,” the witcher introduced himself in both Common and Elder, and Roche sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“What do you want?” he grumbled, then seemed to realize the other adults were present and immediately went tense. “We didn’t do anything!”

Geralt held his hands up placatingly. “Never said you did. Actually, all these people,” he waved at the idiots behind him, “were worried about you. So they asked me to find you. Are you okay?” He repeated the words in Elder and Iorveth blinked up at him in surprise.

“Tha cluasan neònach agad mar Eireachdail.” <You have weird ears like Eireachdail.>

Geralt blinked right back at him. Eireachdail? Did he mean–?

Pointing at Roche, Geralt repeated, “Eireachdail?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Roche said, glaring up at all of them. 

Ciaran and several other elves choked, and the Blue Stripes frowned mutinously. “What does that mean?”

“Handsome,” Geralt’s lip twitched as he answered. “Iorveth said I have weird ears like Vernon. It’s because we’re the same species,” he told the elf. 

“Iorveth,” Ciaran stepped forward, then knelt down to put their heads at the same height. Geralt wondered if it was weird for him to look into both of Iorveth’s eyes like it was for Geralt. “I know you don’t recognize me, but my name is Ciaran. I’m – I’m responsible for you right now, okay?”

Iorveth nodded, not saying anything. He bit his lower lip and reached out to touch Roche’s hand and Roche immediately laced their fingers together, turning the full force of his glare on Ciaran.

“What did you say to him!?” Roche asked furiously. “You leave him alone!”

Ciaran’s lip curled and he very clearly disapproved of Iorveth touching Roche in any fashion. “Come away from there, Iorveth,” Ciaran beckoned the child forward, and brushing at Iorveth’s clothes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?”

For some reason, that caused Roche to flinch back and release Iorveth’s hand, even though Geralt was pretty sure he couldn’t understand the words. But then, Ciaran’s tone made his opinion on Roche more than clear.

Iorveth looked back with concern on his face, reaching out – but Ciaran caught his outspread hand and tugged him away. Iorveth’s shoulders slumped, his expression going blank and proper. He said nothing, obediently following Ciaran, even though he glanced back at Roche more than once.

Roche stayed curled up where he was, determinedly looking at the floor and not at any of them. His flower-strewn hair was frizzy and stuck out in a tangled mess of curls and braids. On his head, a crown of gardenias had clearly made itself at home, its stems irrevocably snarled with Roche’s hair. 

“It’s okay, Vernon,” Geralt said, reaching out slowly to smooth down some flyaway hairs. Roche let him and Geralt felt strangely privileged. “Why don’t we–”

“I’m sorry,” Roche’s voice was meek and watery. “I didn’t mean to get him dirty. I’m sorry.”

Geralt tilted his head, squeezing Roche’s shoulder lightly. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Vernon. You were just playing, right?”

Instead of reassuring him, Roche only seemed to curl in on himself more. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck?” Ves said from behind Geralt. “What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he–?” She broke off when Roche flinched again, as if only now realizing that the kid could  _ hear her.  _

“I’m sorry,” Roche whispered, clutching his knees and starting to rock back and forth, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Geralt soothed, rubbing Roche’s back. “Kids get dirty playing. It’s okay, it’s normal.”

Roche shook his head, burying his face against his knees. 

“Hey!” Iorveth jerked his hand away from Ciaran’s and ran back towards Geralt, pushing him away to spread his arms and stand protectively in front of Roche. “Fàg e leis fhèin!” <Leave him alone!>

Ciaran made an aggrieved noise and the Stripes took offense at the idea that they might hurt their commander. Meanwhile, Geralt was stuck where he’d fallen on his ass, faced with a furious Iorveth and a tear stricken Roche. 

And he’d thought his day couldn’t get any weirder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations from Scots Gaelic (from Google Translate):  
> Dùisg = wake up  
> Cò th 'annad? = Who are you?  
> Tha cluasan neònach agad mar Eireachdail. = You have weird ears like Eireachdail  
> Fàg e leis fhèin! = Leave him alone!
> 
> This is the last chapter I have fully finished, so may be a bit before the next one. But I'm working on it!


	5. Vernon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon is stressed and scared and ashamed, but he's never had a friend like Eireachdail before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is pretty short. But the next chapter should be coming pretty soon, even though this fic decided it needed several more of them!

_ “There’s some filth even the Eternal Fire can’t cleanse,”  _ Vernon remembered the preacher in the last village Mom and he had lived in saying. He always said it when Vernon and his mom passed, and every time, Mom squeezed Vernon’s hand tight and hurried them away, never bringing her gaze up to look at the preacher.

That’s how Vernon knew it was true. Mom never took  _ anything _ lying down, whether it was another landlord claiming they wouldn’t rent to whores or another coworker who didn’t like her freelancing.

So for Mom to turn away and not say anything… it meant the preacher was right. There was something wrong with Vernon, something  _ dirty _ about him that couldn’t be cleaned, no matter how he tried. And he  _ did _ try, he really did! 

He tried to be good, tried to make new friends in each new village they moved to. He learned how to be quiet when his stomach felt like it was eating itself because he was so hungry, learned how to keep his few belongings packed because they could be moving on down the road at any time, even learned how to play by himself.

But somehow he’d never managed to learn how  _ not _ to fight back when someone started something. The first time he’d come home with a black eye and missing tooth, Vernon had actually thought that Mom might be  _ proud.  _ He’d stood up to the mean people, just like she’d taught him.

Somewhere between the point at which  _ oh, Vernon, what happened? Are you okay?  _ turned into  _ oh, Vernon, not again,  _ he stopped trying. What was the point? He couldn’t wash away the dirt and the blood and the grime and that was why people wouldn’t let their kids play with him.

Pretty Boy had played with him. Pretty Boy hadn’t cared about the way Vernon’s touch had dirtied him. When the adults started yelling again, Pretty Boy even defended him, even though he could see the way Pretty Boy’s knees were shaking.

“Pretty Boy,” he murmured quietly, still curled in a ball and rocking himself slightly.

Immediately, Pretty Boy turned to him and next thing he knew, Pretty Boy was wrapping himself around Vernon, rubbing his back and stroking over his hair. It was… really, really nice, actually, and Vernon twisted around to bury his face in Pretty Boy’s neck, murmuring his thanks.

“Uh…” one of the adults in blue frowned at them. “We’re all seeing this, right?”

Vernon tried to make himself smaller, curling into Pretty Boy and clutching him tightly.

Geralt, the only adult who seemed uninclined to be yelly, picked himself up from where Pretty Boy had knocked him down and turned to the others, snapping something that Vernon didn’t quite understand. There were a lot of big words, and he was  _ tired _ of listening to people yell, and Pretty Boy was so nice against him, cool fingers brushing gently through his hair and body wrapped tight around him. 

Of course, being wrapped tight around him meant that he was  _ definitely _ getting Pretty Boy dirtier, but Pretty Boy didn’t seem to care, so he was trying not to. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from whispering apologies against Pretty Boy’s neck, even as he clutched him closer.

Pretty Boy made an odd noise and Vernon opened his eyes to see a bright white light surrounding the two of them. “Wha–?”

The dizzying rush of memories hit him like a caravan, leaving him dazed and bruised. For a long moment, he focused everything he had on drawing in one breath after another, vaguely aware of the fingers stroking his hair and making it easier to breathe.

Slowly, thoughts began to trickle through his mind. He was Vernon Roche. He wasn’t a kid anymore, he was an adult. An adult with responsibilities. Responsibilities like–

His men! Roche jerked his eyes open, trying to assess the situation – only to find that he was being held in place by someone  _ strong,  _ someone whose shoulder had apparently been serving as his pillow.

His head ached as it struggled to remember what the fuck had happened to get him in this situation. He’d been – he’d been fighting the Scoia’tael in the forest. He and his men had ambushed Iorveth’s people and–

And what? The memory refused to materialize, and instead, a lingering sense of nostalgia brought him back to his childhood. He’d been in a forest then, too, and he’d run away from a group of adults with–

“Oh fuck!” Roche jolted, pushing away from the person wrapped around him. This time, the arms let him go, and he scrambled back, blanching as his eyes verified that yes, he had in fact been cuddling with  _ Iorveth.  _

_ That _ Iorveth. Who was apparently  _ also  _ one of the few friends his childhood self had ever had.

“Boss!” Ves yelled, and suddenly his second was beside him, her discrete hand on his shoulder all that was keeping him from collapsing.

  
“What…  _ happened?”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking a lot about Roche and Iorveth's childhood lately, so I really wanted to share some of my hcs for them! Hope you enjoyed!


	6. Iorveth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth's main memory of childhood was being told to be quiet and stay still. So he got used to doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short! But I think only 1-2 more chapters before it's done!  
> I’ve made elven ages about twice that of the comparable human age. So while Roche has been about 7, Iorveth is 14.

Iorveth loved his family. Of course he did. It was just – his family were a bunch of scientists, and he… wasn’t. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried! Science just… was not for him. It was  _ boring _ and  _ repetitive  _ and why would anyone want to go check on experiments every hour on the hour? Iorveth had trouble keeping track of time in general, even when everyone else had specific alarms and signals and other ways to keep them from “ruining their work by being 2 minutes late”.

Frankly, Iorveth just didn’t get the appeal of science. He tried, just so he would be able to understand his family, but it was all hard and the numbers tangled themselves in his head, and he could just never quite get it right. 

He wondered, sometimes, if his sister had as much trouble when she was young. If so, she’d long outgrown it. A century his senior, his sister was now well-established as a geneticist (whatever that was) and she had no more patience for him taking several minutes to balance a chemical equation than his mother did.

By the time he was ten, he’d learned to just nod along politely when someone went off on a “science rant”, and blend into the background when they started talking about experiments and research volunteers. Over the next several years, he’d learned that blending into the background was a versatile skill, an important one for someone in his position.

See, his family was… well, not  _ important,  _ but not  _ not.  _ They had a reputation to maintain, as his mother would often say.  _ Twelve generations of mad scientists, our family. Just you wait, Iorveth, you’ll find what you love in science eventually. _

He was fourteen now and very much still waiting. (He didn’t know it, but he wouldn’t have to keep waiting for long. In about a year, he would meet a cute boy who played music, and his world would change forever.)

But while he waited, he learned. He learned how to hide oneself in open view, how to be so unobstructive that he wasn’t a bother – to his mother, working on another experiment; to his sister, deep in a pile of research books; to his teachers, who were tired of him failing math; even to the other children, who didn’t understand why he dressed prim and proper and wasn’t allowed to go out and play.

Iorveth  _ wanted _ to play. He always wanted to play – to move and run and  _ do _ something. He was so, so tired of being quiet and bored and well-behaved.

That was why Eireachdail meant so much to him. Eireachdail ran with him and played with him and smiled at him and even though he didn’t know what Eireachdail said, Eireachdail didn’t mind that he kept fidgeting. Eireachdail had gave him a flower of friendship, and it was perhaps the most precious thing Iorveth had ever been gifted. He would keep it safe always.

Waking up to a group of adults  _ staring  _ at him was a bleak reminder that wanting to play wasn’t a good enough excuse for actually  _ doing _ it. The tall elf who introduced himself as Ciaran said he was responsible for Iorveth now, and Iorveth wondered what he’d done that this new elf was his caretaker now. Was his mother that busy? His uncle? His sister? Why was this stranger stuck dealing with him now?

He bit his lip and reached for Eireachdail, reached for the last person to actually make him feel better. But apparently that was the wrong thing to do again, because Ciaran looked angry and disgusted and disappointed and Iorveth knew it had to be his fault. 

Still, when Eireachdail pulled away and Iorveth reached for him, Ciaran grabbing Iorveth’s hand instead was something he would never forget. He obeyed the unspoken orders –  _ be good. Stand up straight and be quiet _ – glancing back at Eireachdail with longing.

Only then Eireachdail buried his face in his knees and his shoulders trembled and before Iorveth really knew what he was doing, he’d pulled away from Ciaran and was standing in front of Eireachdail with his arms spread wide.

“Leave him alone!” he screamed at the adults who were making Eireachdail cower, and Iorveth’s fear at disobeying, at being a problem, at making a scene was overwhelmed by pure and utter fury that these people were making his new friend cry.

“Pretty Boy,” Eireachdail whimpered, and Iorveth was at his side immediately, wrapping his arms around the boy and glaring as hard as he could at the adults.

(He didn’t know it, but in that moment, he looked so much like the Iorveth his Scoia’tael had come to know, even with both eyes, that several elves drew back in surprise.)

Iorveth stroked his hand over the flowers he’d braided into Eireachdail’s hair and rubbed Eireachdail’s back the way he’d seen other people’s mothers do for them when they got upset. Eireachdail pushed his face into Iorveth’s neck and the wet tickle of his eyelashes made Iorveth feel a confusing mix of anger and pain and affection.

He was nowhere close to sorting out those emotions when a bright white light engulfed Eireachdail and his arms around Eireachdail and it was spreading to him and what was happening!?


End file.
